


Notation

by Bitememelovin



Category: Eurovision Song Contest RPF, Kostya Bocharov, melovin - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Edwardian, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, Edwardian Period, F/M, Ficlet, Gen, Teacher-Student Relationship, historical fiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 23:10:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15496845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bitememelovin/pseuds/Bitememelovin
Summary: Originally posted on Tumblr, this is what happens when you have obscure fantasies that are linked deeply to times and places you feel connected to, you end up writing obscure things like this.This is just your everyday Edwardian pianist!teacher!composer!Mélovin fantasy ;) and I hope you enjoy, if you come along for the ride.





	Notation

He pours a glass of wine for you and one for himself, placing his own delicate glass carefully on a crowded table next to the piano. In order to find somewhere non-precarious to balance it, he shifts aside piles of scribbled musical notations and scraps of paper containing inky scrawled words. Some fall to the floor, adding to the chaos already there. Books piled upon one another, dictionaries and thesaurus; his language studies and texts.

He settles himself on the piano bench next to you. Brushing his dark hair away from his eyes with long pale fingers. With the ease of habitual pattern, he massages his hands together, working the thumb joint with a small amount of pressure; it’s quite cold in the room, you realise. The fire grate stands empty, cleaned of ash, and there’s no sign of fuel in the coal scuttle. You wonder how much his finances have suffered in recent years, with his musical compositions not exactly matching the popular tastes of the times.

The worn fabric of his shirts tells a story, but only if examined very carefully. He hid poverty well, if that was his intent. The patched linen and tweed and the care taken to mend them and still look well spoke to his character, to necessity, or both.

He rolls up his cuffs, and stretches his fingers before resting them on the smooth ivories before you both.

He turns to look at you from beneath long soft eyelashes, and smiles nervously, why for, you can’t imagine. Perhaps it is because this is the closest you have yet been. Throughout your lessons he has always maintained a polite distance, instructing from standing either beside or behind you. The first time you recall physical contact was when he lent in to adjust your finger position on the keys during your sixth or seventh lesson. The thrill was like electricity when you felt his calluses against your skin.

He strikes a chord with one hand, the clean sound from the old piano reverberating through the room. When he plays, it’s as if a private bubble encompasses you both, and you almost feel like you are holding your breath, so as not to disturb the moment. You can feel the gentle warmth of his skin sitting as close as you are, and the scent of old wood and dust from the piano, warm wine, his pomade, and earth from the ferns he grows atop every surface, is a heady mix that you try your hardest to commit to memory.

He continues playing with a very light touch. You’ve never heard this tune before, but the minor key and the obvious sadness this man is holding so close, makes your heart ache. The melancholy of the music seems to pervade your thoughts also. The longing within it is achingly beautiful. Like a butterfly with a damaged wing trying so hard, and yet failing, to flutter and soar as it once did. He increases the volume as the melody progresses, until he throws his head skyward to match the intensity of the music’s crescendo.

Minutes feel like all but seconds. When he finishes, he keeps his gaze on the keys, you’re not sure if it’s because he is deep in thought, or if he can’t meet your eyes. Moved by a sudden rush of boldness, you extend your hand to touch his face; pale smooth skin, with just a hint of stubble. He doesn’t move at first, then turns his cheek to meet your hand, his eyes closed. You melt a little at the tiny intimacy that you had so longed for but denied yourself. He lingers there a moment, and then picks up his glass and turns to you.

“Times are hard for dreamers,” he says.

You smile sadly and raise your glass, “Well, here’s to us dreamers.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my Tumblr complete with accompanying fan art: http://bit.ly/2OsY0Pe  
> Feedback is love :) <3 ;) All feedback makes my day, week, and month!


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